


An Interesting Development

by heeroluva



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Biting, Developing Relationship, Drunk Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Overstimulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-27 22:22:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17775317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/pseuds/heeroluva
Summary: The first time Geralt and Iorveth fuck Geralt might have thought it was a drunken dream upon waking up to an empty bed if not for the ache in his rear and the fading marks that litter his skin, the evidence not wiped away by his advanced constitution quiet yet.





	An Interesting Development

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wednesday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesday/gifts).



The first time Geralt and Iorveth fuck Geralt might have thought it was a drunken dream upon waking up to an empty bed if not for the ache in his rear and the fading marks that litter his skin, the evidence not wiped away by his advanced constitution quiet yet. Iorveth is a biter it seems. If Geralt masturbates to the thought of Iorveth’s teeth digging into his neck later, who’s to know?

The second time it happens, Iorveth doesn’t mention their last encounter, but Geralt feels the weight of his gaze, the heat in his eye as he tries not to be obvious in his appraisal. If that’s the way he wants to play it, so be it. Geralt bites back a smirk as he raises his canteen, tilting his head back as he swallows, giving Iorveth a nice long look at the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he drinks. 

When Geralt drops his head, Iorveth knows he’s caught. 

“See something you like?” Geralt drawls.

There is no alcohol that night, only frenzied hands that yank at armor and pull clothing to the side just enough to bare the essentials. Geralt hisses as he’s bent over a thick log, Iorveth’s cock slicked with only his saliva burning as he oh so slowly presses into him. “Fuck me!” Geralt bites out, and that’s all the urging that Iorveth needs to slam into him, drawing a grunt from Geralt as he braces himself.

The pace that Iorveth sets is brutal and exactly what Geralt needs, what they both need. Geralt just rolls his eyes when he awakes to find himself alone again.

The third time it happens is after the worst kind of contract. Nothing gets to Geralt like the death of children. It had already been far too late by the time he’d gotten there, weeks, and month, and years too late, but still it weighs on him. 

It’s only late morning when Iorveth finds Geralt well into his second bottle of liquor, his hair still wet from his bath in the nearby cold stream. Geralt doesn’t usually do this, is better at distancing himself, but today he can’t stop seeing the dead eyes of the children, staring so accusingly at him.

Iorveth doesn’t ask, just grabs the bottle from Geralt’s hand, takes a deep, long swig before he passes it back. When that bottle is empty and Geralt goes to pull out a third, Iorveth’s hand closes over his wrists stopping him. Lips twisting in a snarl at the denial, Geralt shoves him back. It’s rougher than he means to be because Iorveth goes sprawling back, a look of shock on his face.

Before Geralt realizes what he’s doing, he’s covered Iorveth’s body with his own and captured his mouth in a harsh kiss, demanding, dominating, his teeth nipping harder than he intends as the taste of blood explodes on his tongue. Iorveth’s fingers twist in Geralt’s long hair, yanking hard, and Geralt has no choice but to raise his head.

Geralt isn’t sure what he expects to see on Iorveth’s face, pity maybe, not the understanding he sees in his eye. Iorveth rolls them, and Geralt doesn’t fight it, the motion causing Iorveth’s bandana, already loosened, to fall free. He doesn’t seem concerned though as he presses his lips, red with blood already, against Geralt’s. The kiss is soft, not at all what he’s used to, and when Geralt tries to deepen it, Iorveth pulls back.

“None of that now.”

Geralt lets himself fall back, and Iorveth’s mouth presses against his again. Geralt’s kissed a lot of people in his life, but never quite like this. They kiss until his lips feel swollen and overused, but he doesn’t want it to stop. When Iorveth tugs at Geralt’s shirt, he raises his hands to help, but Iorveth firmly presses them back down to his side. Geralt isn’t used to being such a passive participant, but when Iorveth says, “Don’t move, or I’ll stop,” before closing his lips over the leaking head of Geralt’s cock, well, Geralt had always been a quick learner.

It takes all Geralt’s will power not to reach for Iorveth’s head, to traces those pointed ears and see if they’re as sensitive as he hopes they are, to thrust into the wet heat of his mouth. When Geralt feels himself press down Iorveth’s throat, feels the way his muscles clench around him, Geralt curls his fingers into fists and recites potion recipes in his head as a means to distract himself.

Iorveth all but worships Geralt’s cock, massage his balls, finding every sensitive spot Geralt has as he brings him to the brink of release again and again, but always stopping just before. Geralt is a sweating trembling mess, his cock as red as he’s ever seen it, his balls full and aching, when Iorveth pulls away. 

Iorveth only takes a moment to study him before he turns, his mouth closing over Geralt’s neck, feeling his pulse against his lips as he bites down. He takes his time, learning Geralt’s body, fingers and mouth examining each scar, each curve and plane as his teeth and lips create new marks on Geralt’s skin.

Geralt is like one giant nerve, the puff of Iorveth’s breath against him almost too much. He barely has the presence of mind to do as he’s told when Iorveth pushes his legs up. 

“Hold them here.”

Geralt does as he’s told, somehow, far more of an effort than it has any right be. The tongue that touches him shouldn’t be a shock, circling against his puckered hole, and the “Please” that slips past his lips draws a soft laugh from Iorveth before he begins to feast.

When Iorveth pulls back, Geralt has far since passed into a state of mindless need, unable to do anything except feel, and wet and relaxed as he is, Iorveth slips inside easily, sliding against his prostate. It only takes a handful of thrusts before Geralt is coming like he’s never come before, almost seeming to piss cum as he shatters with the force of his orgasm. Iorveth doesn’t stop as Geralt’s body milks him, chasing his own orgasm.

It’s from a strange faraway place that Geralt feels the heat of Iorveth’s release inside of him, the press of lips against him. “Sleep,” the voice says, and Geralt does.

When Geralt awakes, it’s dark out, save for the remnants of a smoldering fire he doesn’t remember starting, and he’s not alone. Pressing back against the warmth of Iorveth’s side, Geralt smiles as Iorveth’s arms tighten around him, slipping back into sleep before he can really contemplate this interesting new development.


End file.
